


Traffic Rules

by misura



Category: Italian Job (2003)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:22:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There's a trick to being a good wheelman, a good driver, and it's very simple.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Traffic Rules

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: _Rob/Lyle, he may be called Handsome Rob, but in Rob's opinion, Lyle is truly beautiful in this moment_ (ember_reads)

"Mr Smith, apparently, is looking for a new personal driver," Charlie says, grinning like the cat that's just had a bowl of cream dropped on top of it, and rightly so.

Mr Smith, apparently, is no longer looking for a new, sixteen-million-dollar piece of modern art, by way of already having acquired one, for the meager sum of whatever it cost to hire a bunch of thugs to beat up an old woman. (Say, twenty grand.)

Rob knows that justice isn't really their thing and all; a job's a job, and all that, but there's jobs and jobs, and as long as you keep your emotions out of it, there's no reason not to pull a job on some asshole who deserves it, instead of some lovely old dear who bakes the world's most terrible apple pie.

"Sounds like the start of a plan," he says.

 

There's a trick to being a good wheelman, a good driver, and it's very simple:

when you're not on the job, stick to the rules.

After all, fines can get quite expensive, and getting a new driver's license is also quite expensive, to say nothing of being a pain; you need to find a guy who knows a guy, and then hope they're both reliable, more or less honest folks who don't happen to have any friends or family that just happen to be needing someone skilled but expendable for a quick, easy job. Plus, nobody's ever successfully driven a getaway car from inside of a jail cell. (If Rob ever figures out how to do it, he intends to be the first.)

 

"So what's all these tickets about, huh?" Lyle asks, because he's Lyle.

Charlie looks faintly amused; Left Ear, like he's not listening to the conversation, either because he's not hearing it, or because he feels flirting in the workplace is less than professional.

"Parking tickets don't count," Rob says. They're annoyances, sure, but everybody gets them. They don't reflect on his abilities as a driver; by definition, you can only get them by standing still.

"This one's for speeding," Lyle says. A few taps on the keyboard and it's gone. "So's this one."

"Guess I'm not a good wheelman, then, eh?" It feels unsporting, to get out of a bunch of speeding tickets this way. Rob feels that when someone gives you a good chase, it's only fair they get to have a prize.

On the other hand, last time he checked, traffic cops didn't actually get any kind of percentage on their take. They just get some sort of measly salary, same as every other poor working schmuck.

"You're the best," Charlie says, because he knows the way Rob's mind works by now.

They all do, of course. They're not a good crew like that.

"Damn right I am," Rob says. "And when some cop on a bike tells me to pull over after I've just had a lovely evening and an invitation to drop by for coffee later on, I do the math."

"I thought women liked to see you get chased by the cops." Rob wonders if Lyle knows how obvious he's being. Probably not. It's part of his charm, really.

"Speeding tickets aren't sexy," he says. "Simple. You try to get out of one by speeding some more, you're not improving things. That just makes you a loser."

"Not if you can get away," Lyle says stubbornly. At least, Rob hopes Lyle's being stubborn. The alternative, that Lyle thinks he knows more about this particular subject matter than Rob does, would be such an offense that it might require laser-gaming at dawn. Or possible a paintball fight.

"They get your plates, the only way to get away is if you ditch the car. Lot of work for sixty bucks."

"Fine." Lyle sighs and taps some more keys. "I'm leaving the cheapest of your parking tickets. They're just going to think you're boring, otherwise."

"I'm going to be a man with an outstanding parking ticket. Be still, my wildly beating heart."

"Yeah," Lyle says. "Well, we don't know for sure if the interview's going to be with a woman. You might get the man himself."  
nods. "Best to play it safe."

"Oh, absolutely," Rob says. "I couldn't agree with you more. So, moving on to the more important stuff: what's going to be my name, this time around?"

 

He ends up getting the job. Of course.

"Ms Green spoke very highly of your level of expertise," Smith says, sounding as if he has his doubts, personally, and doesn't mind if Rob knows.

"Thank you, sir," Rob says, politely. Entirely aware of the fact that Lyle is listening to this, that they're all of them listening to this. Wondering how far he went, this time around. There might be bets.

Lyle might make a killing, if he's played his cards right.

(Lyle so rarely does, though.)

 

Of course, rarely isn't the same as never.

Rob's a bit of a sucker, honestly; when he hears the sound of a siren, he doesn't suspect a thing. He toys with the idea of making a run for it, mostly because he's never done a freeway chase in a limo - it might be interesting, he thinks, but not interesting enough to blow the job.

He pulls over, gets his driver's license ready. Not a good story, since those only rarely work, anyway; either the guy gives you a ticket because he's made up his mind to do so, or she's in a good mood and decides to let you off with a warning.

"Sir. Do you have any idea how fast you were going?"

The uniform's a fair fit; not great, but good enough to pass. "Too fast?" Rob guesses, mostly to play along. He's a professional; he doesn't speed by accident.

"That's right," Lyle says. Rob docks him a few points; real traffic cops tend not to agree with anything you say when they're about to chew you out.

"Are you going to give me a ticket, officer?" Rob's not sure where Lyle's going with this. A mystery date, perhaps - the address of a restaurant or movie theater, written on a piece of paper.

"I have real handcuffs."

Rob grins. Notes that Lyle is blushing and that, really, shouldn't that be the reverse? "And what were you planning on doing with those? I could probably find us a nice, quiet, empty parking space."

Lyle sighs. "I'm just not cut out to be an officer of the law, am I?"

Rob shrugs. "You seemed to be doing pretty good on the bike."

"Thanks."

"And hey, you want to slap some cuffs on me, I'll be happy to give you some pointers."

 

Lyle doesn't, as it turns out, although he's happy to take on the other role in their own private game of cop and robber.

“Beautiful.” Rob sits back for just one moment, to admire his handiwork and savor the realization that yes, indeed, he is a very lucky man.

“Me or the car?” Lyle asks, because he's utterly hopeless.

“Both,” Rob says, unable to resist the easy shot. “You, you idiot.”

Lyle flushes and makes Rob wish he'd brought a camera.


End file.
